


Negotiations

by drvology



Category: Batman (Unspecified canon), Batman: The Animated Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-10
Updated: 2011-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 20:15:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drvology/pseuds/drvology
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Protocol and etiquette and tradition and deference and somewhere in there a business deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Negotiations

**Author's Note:**

> B:TAS is my favorite Batverse incarnation; it's become my default setting when imagining the characters &c. That established, I think the fic I write can be aptly labeled 'canon & time nonspecific.'  
> → Written in an hour for 60_minute_fics challenge group @ LJ || 090106 Prompt #3 _Euphemisms R Us -- You're not allowed to be foul-mouthed or controversial in even the smallest way._

Bruce had lost count of the number of times he'd bowed.

There was no telling how many abortive almost handshakes had stuttered, started, pulled back, reached again, fizzled.

Protocol and etiquette and tradition and deference and somewhere in there a business deal.

At least--he thinks they all came to some sort of decision.

About something.

He'd insisted they didn't have to call him anything in particular- just Mister Wayne or even Bruce, if they wanted. They'd insisted oh no, that certainly wasn't to be done, but thank you gracious sir for your kind invitation of that business-partner-now-friends familiarity.

They'd insisted he could drop the _San_. Bruce hadn't said one name all day without it.

Japanese-American businessmen bridging the gap between an American-American businessman and a Japanese-Japanese corporation.

He hadn't realized he'd needed the bridge, but he wasn't about to argue it; the Japanese corporation had seemed equally flummoxed by the intercessory presence but had taken no outward issue. So, nothing of it was mentioned. Not in his fluent Japanese. Not in their best grammar-perfect word-strange English. Not through the politely offered interpretation of the _right, and how'd you get here_ Japanese-Americans.

Bruce really wanted this deal- Wayne Enterprises wanted it. Katsuki really wanted this deal--SukiShin Tech wanted it. That simple, in the best interest of everyone involved, let's put this baby to bed and get rolling.

Which somehow equaled hour upon hour of delicate steps in a delicate dance of saying everything but exactly what each of them wanted over a forest of precision-tuned paperwork, orchid arrangements and the close but not too close distance of a high-gleam polished teak table.

There were crates and shipments and tradeline negotiations. There were licenses and patents and final control over the intellectual concept, the process of manufacturing, the division of profit to be worked out. There was raw materials from China--always sticky because he wasn't dealing with China, he was dealing with Japan and the two didn't exactly get along even if he'd never say the two didn't exactly get along--and nonetheless the material wasn't in Japan and had to come from somewhere. China, to be precise. He'd ended up vaguely referencing China as a _source and port of mutual interest and fair neutrality_ and hoped no else called him on it or sought clarification.

They hadn't. Whether from being convinced or being too gracious, he didn't care.

He'd had a lot of tea. At some point saki--or sake, thank you, either. Then more tea and then more sake. Saki. Whatever. He'd brought cigars and cream-filled processed snackcakes; Katsuki, owner of the Japanese corporation he wanted to seal the deal with loved Little Debbie.

After each agreement there'd be a sip. After each sip a bow. Then a thank you, then a toast to luck and prosperity and a long and harmonious partnership. Then the crinkle-rustle of a wrapper and the amazing feat of the whole cake stuffed into the mouth at once to be chewed and swallowed politely.

It wasn't like Bruce didn't appreciate the finer things or the overly civilized method of coming to a mutually beneficial arrangement; it wasn't like he preferred the brutal, sometimes bitter, cold slice and dice deals he made with, say, whomever was mucking up the Niger Delta at the moment. But. Whoa. Enough of either, after a point, was far, far too much.

He'd had far, far too much of the refined protocol today. Either that or way too much of the saki. Sake. Either, both. All of it.

Bruce's head hurt.

He wondered if his father ever had this trouble, or if it was a simple matter of calling up Detroit and saying in plain English "Yo! Send me something metal. And lots of it--Friday okay by you?"

Bruce wasn't convinced either was any better, any worse.

At the end of the day he and Katsuki had found themselves in the men's room together--no tea, no coconut cream rolls, no orchids--no entourage. Just two guys taking care of business. Literally, more ways than one.

Bruce had said--look, I want seventy percent on this because I've got the initial output--I'm funding the manufacturing line and the materials shipments. I'll need faster returns. Thirty is more than enough. You won't even be facing tariff levies.

Katsuki had pushed for the split to go the other way.

After eliminating the day's worth of tea and saki then washing their hands, they'd shaken on it: sixty, forty.

More than fair, everybody happy everything good, deal's a deal, done.

It'd been another two hours in the boardroom coming to the same resolution through the intricate set of steps, sips, specs and signatures.

Then he and Katsuki had gone out and gotten roaring drunk at some floating-world hostess club karaoke lounge all colored lights and mirror balls and plush seats that stole whole days from your life. Bruce wasn't sure what all they'd said to one another during that world-leading businessman's bender.

All part of the proper etiquette of a deal done right.

Bruce sighed and closed his eyes. He'd flopped on the bed after a shower, towel loose around his waist, toes in and out play in the carpet; lay there as his spine relaxed, cracked, lengthened, as his head slowed back down. As normalcy and not feeling the need to bow or sip or lift a snackcake in salute melted away.

He picked up the phone, asked for a dial-out in friendly, casual Japanese.

One ring- two- three- four-

Dick, breathless, so warm, "Hey! Sorry--couldn't find the phone--" rustling, "got lost in the bed--" a shift, a sigh-- "I think I fell asleep."

Bruce smiled. "Hey," he said back, quiet, on an even-keel for the first time since leaving Gotham in pursuit of this venture.

"What up? How'd it go?" Soft laughter, then, "Hi."

Dick smiled back--definitely sleepy--Bruce could hear it, see it so clearly.

Bruce stretched, let his hand slide down to the knot in the towel. His voice was deep, coaxing, almost foul as he purred, "Tell me the dirtiest, filthiest, raunchiest things you want to do to me, every last detail. Starting now."


End file.
